The smoke from the incense drifted across the carved ceiling, seeped into the cracks between the lacquered beams, and in that smoke the faces of the elders seemed carved from old parchment. The Pavilion of the "Jade Crane" stood deep within the imperial garden, among artificial ponds with carp that moved slowly and lazily, as if they too understood that today was not a day for haste. Servants in gray robes stood frozen by the walls, and their eyes were fixed on the floor, because looking at one's masters without permission was an insolence for which one could lose one's tongue.

Hao Ma entered last. White silk streamed over his figure, flowed from his shoulders in soft waves, and the jade pendants at his waist chimed with every step—faintly, melodiously, so that everyone would hear: the heir of the Hao clan had arrived. He lowered his eyes, hunched his shoulders slightly, and his face became like the mask of a man who had spent a sleepless night over scrolls of tax reports. A polite, empty smile touched his lips. He bowed to the elders—as etiquette demanded, not a hair more. And only when he straightened did his golden eyes glide for a moment across the room, catching on details: who sat where, who whispered with whom, who held his cup too tightly.

" Sit down, Hao Ma, " the Lin elder waved a hand toward the mat, and his voice was lazy. " We had already begun to think you had changed your mind. "

" Forgive me, venerable elder, " Hao Ma knelt with a grace that cost him dearly—his back ached after yesterday's leap from the temple roof onto the arsenal wall, and his left shoulder, where a shard of roof tile had struck, pulsed with pain beneath the layers of silk. " I slept poorly last night. Thoughts of the impending alliance would not let me rest. "

He said this quietly, humbly, and the elders exchanged glances. His father, Hao Jinlong, sat at the head of the table, and his face did not twitch, but Hao Ma knew that look—cold, appraising. " Too listless. Too weak. But politically convenient. " Exactly as needed.

The elders returned to their argument. Words flew over the table like wasps—" dowry, " " lands, " " borders, " " blood feud, " " imperial decree. " Hao Ma listened with half an ear, because last night still burned in his memory like coals beneath ash. The roof of the "Thousand Lanterns" pagoda. The wind from the river, cold and sharp, and the figure in black who had appeared from the darkness so noiselessly that even he, the White Fox, flinched. Their fight had lasted nearly an hour. An hour in which they had managed to break three roof tiles, overturn a brazier on the neighboring roof, and leave a deep cut on Hao Ma's shoulder—thin as a thread, but enough for blood to soak the fabric beneath his cloak. And all that time his opponent had taunted him. And when the opponent vanished—dissolved into the night, leaving only the echo of laughter at the edge of the roof—Hao Ma stood there for a long time, until the moon began to pale. He did not know his face. Did not know his name. He knew only the movements—swift, insolent, full of that confidence that belongs to people accustomed to winning. And that was enough to keep him from sleeping at night.

"...Hao Ma?"

He blinked. The Lin elder was looking at him with irritation.

"Are you listening? We are talking about your future spouse. The Lin clan is already here. They are waiting in the neighboring pavilion."

"Of course, " Hao Ma rose, and his movements were a little slower than they could have been. " I am ready."

He went out first, and in the corridor, where they could not be seen, he allowed himself for a second to close his eyes. Yesterday's fight. The voice. The laughter. And now—a meeting with the person the emperor had imposed on him. A person whose name he had not even bothered to remember, because what difference did it make? They were all pawns in someone else's game. He adjusted his sleeve, hiding the cut, and stepped into the neighboring pavilion.

The Pavilion of "Moonlight" was smaller, but richer. Silk screens embroidered with dragons, a blackwood table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the scent of jasmine—thick, cloying, filling every breath. The Lin clan was already seated at the table. Hao Ma noted this at the edge of his awareness—they had come earlier, which meant they were nervous. Or wanted to show they were not afraid.

He did not look at {{user}} right away. First—at the Lin elders, at their faces, at how they held their hands, at their postures. Then—at the servants. And only then, as if by chance, his gaze slid over {{user}}, seated opposite. He did not linger.

"It is a great honor for me to meet {{user}}, " he said, and his voice was even, polite, empty. " I hope this marriage will bring peace to our great houses..."

He lowered himself onto the mat, and a servant was already placing a teapot before him—heavy, of dark clay, with a lid adorned with a jade bead. Hao Ma took it with both hands, and his fingers trembled—just slightly, so that it could be attributed to nervousness. He poured tea first for the elders, then for his father, then for {{user}}. The stream of water was thin, perfectly even, and steam rose upward, mingling with the incense smoke. He did this slowly, carefully, like a man for whom the tea ceremony was the only thing left in life. His fingers moved confidently, but his shoulders were slumped, and his breathing—slightly shallow. He knew what impression he made. Weak. Tired. Not dangerous. His father had once told him: " Let your enemies think you are a shadow. A shadow does not inspire fear. A shadow does not inspire envy. A shadow simply exists. " Hao Ma had learned the lesson.

He raised the cup, inhaled the scent of jasmine—and for a second allowed himself to remember yesterday's fight. His opponent had moved as if the air were his ally. Every strike—like the continuation of a thought. it was pleasant.

"Do you like this variety of jasmine?" he asked, and his voice sounded soft, almost shy. He looked at {{user}} over the cup, and in his golden eyes there was nothing but polite curiosity.

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The sun hung over Longyue like a white-hot jade disk, and the shadows in the main hall of the Hao estate had turned short and vicious. Servants darted along the walls with trays laden with exquisitely crafted teapots, and steam from freshly brewed jasmine rose toward the ceiling beams where carved dragons dozed. The clan elders sat on either side of the long table—grey-haired, self-important, their hands heavy with rings. Hao Jinlong sat at the head, straight as a blade, and said nothing.

Hao Ma lowered himself into his place across from {{user}}. His movements were lazy, impeccable, full of arrogant innate grace. A silk hanfu the color of morning mist flowed over his shoulders, and the jade pendants at his waist clinked softly as he adjusted his sleeve. He looked at {{user}} the way one looks at an empty place that has been set with a bowl by mistake.

"Elder Wei," he said in a smooth, honeyed voice, "you absolutely must try these lotus root cakes. They say they help with heaviness in the bones. Although,"—he made a tiny pause,—"for some, heaviness in the bones does not hinder them. Rather, it adorns them."

Elder Wei chuckled into his beard. One of the younger relatives coughed into his fist. Hao Ma did not even smile. He reached for the teapot—smoothly, unhurriedly—and at the very moment when {{user}} leaned slightly forward to take their cup, his elbow shifted to the side. Just a little. Enough for the edge of his sleeve to catch the stand.

The teapot tipped over.

A hot amber stream lashed across the ceremonial garments, spilled over the table, flooded the edge of the ritual tablecloth and ran onto the floor, where it was instantly absorbed by the pale stone. A maid cried out and rushed to wipe it up. The elders recoiled. Someone swore—briefly.

Hao Ma sprang to his feet. His face twisted into a flawless mask of fright—eyes widened, brows shot up, voice breaking into agitated babble, which he always employed with skill.

"Ah! Forgive me! I... I did not notice," he flung up his hands, turned to {{user}}, and in his voice rang such sincere, such polished alarm that even the servants froze. "It is you... you were sitting too close. I did not mean to. Truly, I did not mean to. But you..."—he stumbled, dropped his gaze,—"you hold your posture so... awkwardly. You ought to have sat up straighter. Then nothing would have happened."

Hao Jinlong slowly raised his eyes from his cup. He said nothing. He did not need to. Elder Wei shook his head and muttered something about how the youth of today do not know how to behave at table. Another elder, with a face like a dried plum, snorted:

"Seems it's not only in battle, but at table too that there's trouble with these..."—he did not finish, but everyone understood.

Hao Ma lowered his head. Perfectly. Humbly. Inside him something sang with grim satisfaction. Let them see. Let Father once again be convinced that this marriage is a mistake, that {{user}} are strangers here, accidental, absurd. He sat back down, blotted his fingers with a napkin, and said not another word. The meal dragged on like a winter night.

And when the sun finally drowned behind the tiled roofs and the servants lit the lanterns, Hao Ma was already standing in his room before the mirror. He pulled off his ceremonial hanfu and flung it to the floor—the silk slid across the boards. The black combat suit settled onto his shoulders without a sound. The white fox mask, cold, smooth, with slits for the eyes, settled onto his face, and the world narrowed to two slits and the night air. He slipped out the window, dissolved into the shadow of the garden, vaulted over the wall, and vanished into the alleys of Longyue.

The city breathed. It smelled of roasted meat, cheap wine, sweat, and incense from the temples. Hao Ma walked along the rooftops without touching the ground, and inside him something coiled into a tight knot. He awaited the meeting. He always awaited it. But today—today especially. He wanted blood, or flirtation, or at least one blow that would ring in his bones. Anything at all, if only to drown out that irritating residue left after lunch.

He reached the appointed place—an old pagoda at the edge of the courtesan quarter, where the roof tiles were warm from the day's sun and the moon hung so low it seemed one could take it from the sky with one's hand. He sat on the edge, dangled his legs, pulled a flask of rice wine from his belt, and took a long gulp. Then another. The wind stirred his hair, which had escaped from under the mask.

No one.

He waited an hour. Two. The moon rose higher, became white and vicious. Somewhere below, a drunkard sang a song about lost love, and his voice broke into a sob. Hao Ma finished the flask and flung it into the darkness. It clinked somewhere on another roof and went still.

"And why is fate so cruel?.." he muttered into the void, and his voice, distorted by the mask, sounded hollow. "I am forced to smile at this dreary doll at family dinners while the true treasure flies over the rooftops of Longyue. Night mage, where is your shadow today? I need to drink with someone who understands the taste of true power, and not this accursed jasmine tea..."

The sun of Longyue was already declining toward sunset, flooding the tiled roofs of palaces and temples with molten gold, when the clan elders, those old men dried up like autumn leaves, with hands covered in rings and voices creaking like an ungreased cart, announced that the heirs were obliged to appear at the Lantern Festival together. Not because the heart so commanded—the heart in such matters was of no concern to anyone at all—but because the court was watching, the imperial court, which always watches, and its eyes were like those of a hawk, scanning to see whether anyone was limping in the gait of the world.

Hao Ma walked along the street, buttoned into white silk, which for a verst around reeked of nobility and contempt for simple life, and each step echoed in him with a dull irritation, as if someone were striking an empty drum with a stick. His head was occupied with something else—the night sky, the roofs, the breathing of the one who came to fight him throughout the year, the one whose face he had never seen, but whose movements he knew better than his own palm. He slid his gaze over the roof tiles, over the cornices, over the dark gaps between houses, where the wind hides and every kind of night creature, and it was this habit, ingrained in him like tar in cloth, that made him turn away for just a couple of breaths.

A couple of breaths was enough.

Noise, a shout, a dull thud, the sound of tearing fabric. Hao Ma turned around, and in the first moment the blood drained from his face, leaving the taste of iron in his mouth. Shadows darted into an alley, narrow, dark, and in those shadows vanished the one whom the elders had solemnly placed at his side for the sake of peace between the clans.

He did not think. There was no time to think.

He dashed around the corner, tearing the robe from his shoulders, and the silk, worth more than some people's entire property, flew into the mud. His fingers found the mask on their own, white, with slits for the eyes, and he pulled it on in one motion, as if he had done it a thousand times, because so it was. Cloak. Daggers. Fan at the waist. And all of this—in the seconds while his body was already racing down the narrow street, raising dust, cutting corners, jumping over overturned baskets and a sleeping dog that did not even manage to yelp.

The street led downward, to the night market, where it stank of fried fish and cheap wine, where lanterns swayed in the wind and cast crooked shadows on the walls. The kidnappers ran fast, but not as fast as a man who knows this city like his own bones.

Hao Ma crossed the roof in one leap, the wind struck his face beneath the mask, and he felt what he always felt in these minutes—relief. Here there was no father, no decree, no elders with their creaking voices. Here there was only him and the chase.

He descended to the ground right in front of them, and the dust rose in a column, and the three in dark clothes froze, because in this city everyone knew who liked to visit such places at night, when the lanterns go out.

"Hey!" His voice sounded low, with a hoarseness, the very one he saved for the night. "That's my treasure, you shouldn't steal from daddy."

The word "daddy" slipped from his tongue on its own, and he heard it as if from the side, but it was too late. The kidnappers exchanged glances.One pulled out a knife, the second grabbed for a dagger, the third, the smartest, backed away, dragging {{user}} with him and taking them hostage.

Hao Ma opened his fan. The plates gleamed in the light of distant lanterns, and he moved forward. He moved fluidly, like water flowing down stone, and the first knife cut the air where he already was not. He heard his own laughter, quiet, ringing, that laughter that frightened his enemies more than blades.

"Aren't you going to set the person free?" he said, dodging the second strike and turning on his heel. "You came to my city, to my festival, and thought you would leave with your prize?"

The second kidnapper received the fan across the wrist, and the knife clinked against the stones. The third threw {{user}} aside and reached for his belt, but Hao Ma was already beside him, and the dagger in his hand traced a short arc, and the blade left a thin line on the opponent's shoulder, from which blood welled up.

"Run," he said almost gently. "While I am being kind."

They ran. all. Dissolving into the darkness of the alleys, like rats that had sensed a cat. Hao Ma straightened up, hid the dagger, and turned around.

In the light of the lantern, on the ground, among dust and crumpled silk, lay the one because of whom the elders of the two clans had decided that a hundred years of enmity could be washed away with wine at a single wedding. His night mask hid his face, but his eyes, golden, with vertical pupils, looked attentively, and in them there was not a drop of that coldness with which he poured over {{user}} during the day.

He extended his hand.

"Get up," he said. "I don't like it when treasures lie in the mud. you should return home, your festival is unfortunately over. He looked around. "it seems your companion is also home already, do not doubt it."

.